Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

Annabelle continued to stare at him. “Did you tell the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Jack turned and watched Lois yawn. “Because I want to know who the hell he was working for.” He thought he might feel better for telling Annabelle. Instead, a kind of nausea drifted through him.

“You shouldn’t play games with the police.”

“It’s how the world turns, isn’t it?” said Jack, irritated. “Durst acted like he’d never seen me before.”

“So what? He’d just shot a man! And he’s only seen you once.” Annabelle thought about it: the effort pressed faint lines into the corners of her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. Maybe he was thinking too much again. Maybe the connections were all just slipknots. Maybe soon enough they were going to cut off his circulation.

Annabelle went over and knelt in front of him. She cupped his face in her hands. They were warm, soft hands. “You look tired,” she said.

“I have to get ready for work.”

“I’ll drive you. Does that give you more time?”

Jack looked into her eyes, grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. She was beautiful, crazy beautiful, and he clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the glowing hair in his fist. “Time for what?” he said.

Annabelle half closed her eyes. She rolled her head around in a small circle, slowly, while Jack pressed his fingers into her neck. A soft sigh parted her lips. Then she put her hands on his knees and pushed herself up. She tilted her hip a little and reached around her side. She began to untie the straps on her dress.

“I didn’t have time for a shower this morning,” she said. “I feel dirty. Do you mind?”

“All I’ve got is a bath.”

Annabelle began to slip the dress off. “Better let the cat out then.”

The Concise Oxford English Dictionary was still on the counter at Susko Books where Jack had left it the day before. He put his bag down and stared at it. He put his hand on the front cover and thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Then he closed his eyes, flipped the book open and stabbed a finger at the page:

poignant/ • adj. 1evoking a keen sense of sadness or regret. 2 archaic sharp or pungent in taste or smell.

Jack closed the OED and returned it to its place in the reference section. Next time he would try another book.

He turned on the heat, the lights, and slipped the float in the cash drawer. He took a bite of the croissant he had bought on the way into the city and drank from a small bottle of orange juice. The shelves needed dusting. The floor needed sweeping. Jack wondered how much it would cost to employ a regular cleaner. He thought about how much he would get stung for the rear door. He wondered how long the day was going to take getting to 5.00 p.m.

When the phone started ringing, he was sure it was the police. Worst-case scenario, it would be Peterson. He answered with a tight hello.

“You going to pick these books up or what?”

It was Chester Sinclair. It was the first time Jack did not mind hearing his voice.

“Mr Sinclair. And how are we this morning?”

“Yeah, great. So when do I get my money?”

“That’s wonderful. The wife, kids?”

“Have you dropped a tab, Susko?”

“Mum and dad?”

Chester paused. “Jesus.”

“And how’s business?”

“Two hundred and seventy-five dollars down. I’d like my money today. Now, fuck it.”

“What’s the rush?” said Jack. “Hot date and you need money for a nose job?” He noticed the edginess in Sinclair’s voice.

“The books you wanted are here. As agreed.”

“And?”

“Come, pay, leave.”

“That’s not a sentence, Sinclair. There are laws, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. They’ve already been here.”

“What?”

“I want nothing to do with it, so just come and get your books and that’s that. Man, I had a feeling about this deal in the first place.”

Jack watched somebody peek through the glass of the front door. They had a look and then walked back up the stairs. “Who’s been there?” he asked.

“The fucking police, that’s who!”

Jack let it sink in. “Why?”

“Because your fucking poet’s been shot, that’s why. They were waiting here for me this morning.” Chester lowered his voice. “I want these books out of here.”

“Why would they come and see you?” Jack’s tone was cool but his blood pressure had started to climb.

“Because my fucking message was still on Kass’s machine!”

“What message?”

“I rang to see if he would be interested in selling his personal copies. If I’d known the fucking police would be round here …”

“Just relax, Sinclair. Your walnut might pop. What did they ask you?”

“What do you mean?”

Jack shook his head. “I mean what did the police ask you?”

“Hey, don’t come at me all smart-fuck-son-of-a-bitch! I’m allergic to the goddamn police. They make me come out in a rash and I can’t shit for a month.”

“Try bran and some exercise.”

“You just come and get these books out of here.”

Jack tried again, his voice calm, friendly. “So what did they ask you?”

“They wanted to know why I was after Kass’s books.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I’d heard on the grapevine a collector was after them.”

“And of course they asked who.”

“Yeah, they asked.”

Jack let out a slow, measured breath. He hated Chester Sinclair. It was going to be his new hobby. He was going to spend a couple of hours at it every morning, like yoga. “And?”

Down the line, a sound of phlegm being coughed and then swallowed. “I told them to speak to you.”

“You’re a real friend, Sinclair. Next time I need a two-thousand-volt migraine, I’ll give you a call.”

“Hey, what was I going to say? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

Jack remained silent.

“Anyway, what have you got to worry about? Just tell them who your collector is.” The logic eased the tension in Chester’s voice. His smug, confident tone returned. “Just pass it on down the line, man, easy as that. It’s not like you killed the bastard. You’re just a guy who sells books. Like me!”

“Just like you,” said Jack in a low voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him: nearly 10.00 a.m. Time to open up the shop. “Did they say anything about the shooting?”

“No. But they wanted to see Kass’s books. I told them I didn’t have any.”

“Right.” It was a small lie, insignificant: not like Jack’s. He was jealous.

“So you going to pick them up today?” There was a bubble of hope in Chester’s voice.

Jack did not hesitate to pop it. “What for?” he said. “Now that you’ve palmed the cops onto me, I’ll obviously have to palm them off onto my collector, who I doubt will be interested in any more books of poetry. So what the fuck would I want with them?”

“Hey, we had a deal! Two hundred and seventy-five bucks! You can’t pull out now.”

“Really? Did I sign something, Sinclair?”

“What? No, you can’t —”

Jack hung up the phone. Fuck . Before speaking to Chester, he had believed there was a slim possibility the police might leave him alone. Not anymore.

He needed to buy a couple of newspapers, see if anything had been written up about Kass’s death. Jack slipped on his jacket, wound on his scarf and left the shop. There was a newsagent up the road.

He had just got back and was scanning the front page of one of the newspapers at the counter when Detective Peterson and Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked in. Peterson was grinning, arms casually slung into the pant pockets of his dark blue suit. Jack could hear keys jingling as he approached the counter. Glendenning followed: olive-green jacket and black pants, head down, stern faced, throwing quick sideways glances along the aisles of books. His shoes squeaked, but not like leather. Jack had known in his waters that the day was going to start with their arrival, no matter what time that was. He had been hoping for later.